


Abiding

by Notabluemaia



Series: Homecoming [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Illustrated, M/M, Nude illustration, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-07
Updated: 2004-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The waiting is hard, while the one you love walks a hard and lonely road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abiding

 

Rake. Tarpaulin.

Hand pruners, the needle-nose ones.

Tool belt. Although couldn’t be much needed repair now. Nary a hinge nor nail hadn’t been twice oiled or pounded tight. He smiled wryly. _Tend what you can, when you can’t tend who you want…_

He swung the supple leather low round his hips, buckled it quickly – two whole notches tighter, now – and checked the contents of its familiar loops and pockets. Hammer, oil can, sturdy knife. Twine. _Better have it and not need it than have to come back._ He pushed the pruners through their usual loop, his hand resting easy on the handle, and looked around the dim shed, thinking what else was needed. He smiled to see the bundles of herbs and flowers, dried and tied and hung neatly for easy selection, above his work bench. Aye, there was tending and _tending_. He patted his front pocket, where he’d secured a small bottle, an infusion from his favourites, newly blended, to replenish… Would it be safer in his belt’s pouch? No, better here, close, its warm weight a constant reminder…

What else?

Shears. Cut back the straggling daisies and daylilies afore frost blight, and they might just find a second bloom if that frost were late. Pull up the leggy petunias, gone to seed, and pinch back that straggle of bronze begonias, and they might oblige again, too. Plant up a pot of pansies for that sunny top step through the winter. And mustn’t forget the yarrow. Best do that first. Set it in water in the shade –

Aye, a bucket and the tin dipper, too – half full should do it. No sense in carrying more’n needed.

Fork. For the compost, heaped high in the wheelbarrow.

Basket? Pick the apples ripened on the saplings he’d bred? Yellow and freckled as the pears whose scent and savour they borrowed, to please a certain taste, and sure to delight. Plenty this year to show and trade at Harvest Festival, with a winter’s worth reserved for cold storage. But time enough yet to collect all in, and then enjoy a picnic, shared amongst the trees, new and gnarled alike. To lie in early autumn sunshine, content after hard jobs well done, good food, peaceful sleep, and – best not think on what else.

He grasped the barrow’s worn handles, hoisted from bent knees, and put his back into the push. Heavy enough. But he’d carried and would carry heavier burdens yet. And the flagstone path laid before him now was smooth enough; he’d trodden roads rougher, and would do so again. _In some ways easier walking a hard road yourself than knowing it’s walked by another._

He set the wheelbarrow down at the gate, by the roses. They’d been a glory for sure, hadn’t they? Still were, to his eye, though most petals had long since fallen, leaving bright hips swelled red in late summer’s warmth, and a blessed new flush of green and white buds just coming to flower in their midst. But those early blooms lingered in memory – so very fair, amid glossed leaves of shine and shadow, each curved petal soft as –

No. Don’t think on it, not yet… Not with so much of the morning and all the afternoon still stretching out ahead, long as summer and a season. He'd used these days well, biding his time, waiting on a promise real as the roses, and as true as nature's design – that every season turned, and would return. Summer to autumn, spring after winter. And summer’s pale petals _would_ lie soft beneath his touch once more…

But not yet.

He knelt on the flagstone path near the bushes, shifted off a stray and thorny twig before it could penetrate, spread his knees to steady himself, and considered what was needed. Gather several of the fullest clusters of hips, and a bud or two. Not much else to be done here, but no withered or crisped leaf or stem should mar the season’s perfection, not of his roses. Not even of the generous geraniums and the frothy foliage of love-in-a-mist (queer, horned seed pods nigh on ready for gathering, now) that disguised so well the shrubs’ ungainly feet. He shoved himself to his feet, took pruners firmly in hand, stepped onto one of the stones scattered through the roses, and started to reach into the foliage–

Oh, and after all that, he’d gone and forgotten gloves – what a ninny! He shook his head, chagrined by his oversight – but in truth he didn’t _want_ anything between him and the roses. Today, every sense tingled, demanding fulfilment. He welcomed the distraction of sharp, spiky canes; the satin smoothness of the leaf shine; the catch of tiny, weak spines on their undersides; the homely smell of rich earth in the shade beneath.

The morning’s heat rose with the sun, overhead now, and soaked soothing warmth into his back and shoulders, flexing, rising, falling as he bent and leaned. Finally, he straightened. Not a leaf or stem, as didn’t glow with health.

And he could not stay his hand from lifting to the perfect bud unfurling, half-hidden in the centre of the bush. He brushed one fingertip gently across the curve of its outermost petal, delicate as a memory. Yes, these were special roses he’d bred, for a special hobbit – tribute to a love as strong as all of nature. He took a deep breath and pulled his hand back reluctantly, through the lush foliage – and caught it upon a thorn. Red welled in the tear; he brought it to his lips, sucking, then spitting away blood and broken thorn.. No real harm, and he wouldn’t’ve thought a thing of it, except that this careless scratch would cause concern as soon as seen. He wouldn’t want to give _any_ cause for worry.

He shrugged ruefully. _Now that’s what comes of not wearing your gloves, and make no mistake, you’ll hear about that, too!_ Dry chastisement, served up with so much caring – soft and clear in his mind, the deft combination raised a smile – and wrenched his heart. Drawing a deep breath, he stooped to collect the rose clippings, settling the little hip and bud bouquet into the bucket, and turned his attention reluctantly from the roses to tasks elsewhere. _Plenty left to do, and you’ve done much as you can, here. And there’s not a spot anywhere that isn’t filled with memory, roses or no._

Bend, and lift, and trim. Pull, and stoop. Tend each bush and flower to its need. Shovel compost, spread its blanket round the plants. Rake autumn’s leaves into bright piles, before they dried crisp brown. He settled easily into the familiar rhythms of tasks he enjoyed, in the garden that he loved; taking pleasure in moving, his muscles made limber by constant work. Midday heat blanketed him, still summer-hot despite the shorter days and cooling nights.

He soon shed his waistcoat, then considered removing the worn linen shirt. Yes, he would. Not likely any traffic on the road this day, with Festival drawing all to town, and he’d hear any approach well before an unsuspecting passer-by could be offended by his ‘flauntin’ hisself,’ as his gaffer would have had it. But the only one whose offence would really matter to him, would take none – if he returned sooner than he dared hope – and would instead delight in the sun’s blush across his back and shoulders, the light brushed through the fur across his chest and down his belly. In memory, he could hear a melodious voice telling him how very much it was appreciated; could see and feel the delight as a cool hand traced the golden line lightly, teasingly downwards to his own rising response… Suddenly the day became a lot warmer.

Leaning on his fork, he rested, gulping long draughts dipped from the bucket, and pushed back sweaty curls, knowing he was streaking dirt on his cheeks and forehead, but no matter now, plenty of time to clean up. Soon enough.

[ ](http://photobucket.com)

A cooling breeze lodged against the far side of the smial, blocked from the garden between gate and flagstone steps, but he could hear its sough in the trees. He imagined it full in the face, easing a traveller’s weary steps, but he’d rather its freshening behind…

And in every task, in every moment, he hoped. A sound – he started, his heart pounding, before he knew it for a sudden skirl of breeze, an acorn dropped to fallen leaves, a squirrel scurrying. A shadow – only a cloud passing before the sun, a crow overhead, the blur of a robin fluttering down to peck the fresh turned soil at his feet.

But anticipation was thorny comfort indeed, and there was plenty needing doing still. And now, time began to fly, seeming suddenly short. Squinting, he cast an eye to the sun and thrilled with realisation: this day _was_ getting on – soon, close, soon – and there was much left to do within the smial, as well as his errand to town. He shrugged on the discarded clothes, returned tools and barrow to the shed, rubbish to the compost heap. _Hurry, now…_

Flowers to gather, first – bittersweet from its draping of the fence by the shed; a handful of the drifting grasses that rustled in the meadow behind; cattails from the marsh edge of the pond below The Hill. The soft breeze cooled him as he wandered, lifting his hair, whispering that same breath that might have kissed any traveller. Refreshed, arms laden with early autumn splendour, he collected the yarrow and roses from the buckets by the kitchen door and slipped inside the smial, still fragrant from the morning’s baking. Rose buds and bright red hips to the table, with herbs from the morning’s gathering. He set the other stems upon the draining board, stretched to a high shelf for the cobalt vase, and arranged them as naturally as though they’d grown together.

Food and drink, next – set cups and saucers to hand, with milk jug and sugar bowl and spoons, ready to bring a steaming teapot, snugly jacketed in its cosy from the kitchen to refresh a weary traveller; fetch a favourite crisp white wine from the cellar, for later; crusty herbed bread; buttery cheese, seasoned with thyme; tarts filled with summer peaches or spiced curd. A bud vase for the roses, and silver bowls polished to a gleam; sparkling goblets. He looked thoughtfully at the tray as he tucked into a late lunch: cheese and honey wheat bread, seeds and nuts toasted golden, and purple globe grapes. Add a sweet cluster to the tray.

Yes, this would do, at least until later. And then, the hearty stew – carrots and onions, mushrooms, chicken and wine – made this morning, set to simmer over a low fire, its rich flavours blending to scent the whole smial. And, of course, his special treat – must be sure to leave time to fetch it, the very last thing…

He carried the tray to the sunny bedroom, placed it by the hearth. He took a deep breath; only a few more touches now. Logs laid already over kindling, needing only a spark to set on their cheerful crackling; beeswax tapers would cast a fragrant glow when darkness fell. Flowers to the nightstand, and into its drawer, a sprig of bright rosehips, mingled with evergreen rosemary, set amongst a bounty of what might – _would_ – be needful. All made ready by his hand, to soothe, to ease, to offer every pleasure… His breath caught, and a sigh escaped; he closed the drawer. He could not stay here, for there was much yet to do.

Linens, then – fresh ones. And finally, replace this, from summer’s end, when lithe limbs, graceful and heated as summer itself, had twined and folded last around him. The downy pillow had been his comfort during these long nights, with its lingering trace of well-loved scent; the chestnut strand curled still upon it. That morning, he’d let his hand rest softly, remembering the warmth of a fading imprint, shaped by a dark head thrown back in love… remembering then, and now, the sweet weight laid to sleep upon his chest, rising, falling with breath quickened still… He closed his eyes and leaned against the bed, running his hand across the velvety eiderdown. Soon…

But not yet.

Quickly now, the bathing room. Tend to it, and to his own needs.

Towels – the softest ones, folded close to hand by the wooden tub, and a bath sheet for himself. Fill and warm the tub, then re-stoke the fire beneath the copper, to heat up more water, and the room would be nicely warm against evening’s chill, for surely soon… so soon… And perhaps even now, _he_ could come silent down the hall to surprise, fling arms around him, laughing – He stopped, just as he shed the last of his clothes. Had he heard? He listened, and turned, even went to the door to peer into the hallway’s shadow. But no step fell close, no rush of air stirred to announce arrival.

Not yet…

He slipped into the gently swirling water with a sigh, and held out his hands for a good critical look. Well, they surely wanted attention – needed a good trim as much or more than anything he’d seen in the garden! Not to mention some fierce scrubbing, and his feet, too. He made short work of his bath, heated barely enough from the one can he’d allowed himself in his hurry – no time to soak anyway, and cool water calmed as warmth and memory could not have done. Finally satisfied with cleaned nails and reddened skin and curls untangled on furry feet, he climbed out and dried himself briskly.

Standing naked before the mirror, he tugged a comb through wet hair, casting a cursory look over his sturdy body. Did the missing show? Not at first glance, but he _had_ changed. _Well, it’s been long enough…_ His cheeks were hollowed; till this morning’s flurry of baking, food hadn’t held much interest, except when he’d been to family dinners down the Row – better to eat there, than hear the fussing at him! His gaze travelled downwards; more muscle showed than should; furred belly much less rounded. There’d be plenty said about that, too, after thorough explorations... He shivered; felt and saw himself stir… and swell… but with a deep breath, forced himself to move on, to make all else as ready.

He chose from a shelf generously stocked with more potions he’d blended. What would please? The geranium? No, too medicinal. Basil and thyme? No, much as he liked the smell, it was too much like the stew he’d made! Here, this, this was just right – woodruff and honey, sweet to nose and tongue alike. He rubbed the soothing lotion into cuticles, callouses, and that now less obvious scratch – then skimmed it all over, smiling at the feel, and the effect.

He bent to pick up the towel, discarded at his feet, and cleared away drips and dropped clothes, dumping bundled linens and stained garments in the hamper, hesitating…

Ah, yes – in his front trouser pocket, sealed fast and warmed still by this day’s concealment, its weight and shape a pleasurable reminder with every movement – a small brown bottle, a familiar infusion, steeped these many days: pure oil, and herbs chosen for scent and virtue from the profusion dried at his workbench. This one to keep here, on the shelf, not needed today, most like, but… He smiled, remembering a few bath-times when this very oil had served its purpose well, right here…

He wrapped his hand tightly around it and closed his eyes, seeing it held lightly by a smaller hand, tipped, poured… Trembling, he opened his eyes and set the vial at eye level; likely to be noticed, to be touched, taken in hand… soon… Unsure whether his deep breaths would hitch into a sob as longing wrenched his breast, he called on reserves of patience, and with a will as strong and resilient as the garden itself, he turned from memory to preparation.

Gather fresh clothes, soft to the touch, pleasing colours, shrug them on and straighten them quickly… Make sure all is just so. Bathing room, spotless; kitchen, cleared; the study… well, just as it always was, really. Make haste – still one more thing, only one more errand…

He closed the front door, and stepped away, hurrying down the Hill to Hobbiton to collect what he’d arranged in advance, the one preparation that _had_ to be left to the very last moment. He skirted the festive crowds to find the small tent; his surprise was already packed in the last of winter’s ice, and wrapped thickly enough to keep its cold inside. The final and best celebration of summer’s end, a rare treat – aye, this _would_ delight! Happily, he added a dozen butterscotch biscuits to the purchase, grasped the bag firmly, lifted the heavy box, too awkward to carry in arms, and hoisted it to his shoulder.

And now, it was surely time? Time by his own reckoning, time by promised expectation, time and more than time as measured by his need. He forced himself to _walk_ back up the Hill, despite eagerness - with a care to his burden, though every part of him was aquiver.

Patience. Patience…

Would he be there? Could he, already? He’d said late afternoon, before dark, and having said it, he’d do everything within his power to make it so – but ‘late afternoon’ stretched from now till nightfall… and might be any moment between.

No telling from the garden. Roses welcoming by the gate; buds purest white, hips vibrant as holly berries amid dark foliage. Fallen leaves glowing autumn bright, scattered like flowers since he’d raked. Yellow chrysanthemums, clumps of purple sedum; fragrant thyme creeping between the flagstones leading up to the pot of blue and orange pansies by the round green door.

No sign looking up to the smial, the only motion there the apple wood smoke drifting grey from chimneys over fires he’d lit himself. Nothing stirred beyond the shutters he’d thrown wide. With his heart in his throat, he paused on the top step and made himself ready for either joy or disappointment. Bracing the box on his hip, he set his hand to the door, and pushed, his eyes closed on a wish until it was fully open. He would know at a single glance –

And his heart sang _‘Now!’_ as he saw the worn leather pack dropped upon the entry tiles, the cloak nearby in a heap, a long cloth-wrapped bundle leaning against the wall. Instantly, in his mind, he saw the weary traveller shed pack and gear, pause and kneel to remove the bundle, set it safely aside… stand, stretch and roll his shoulders as he’d seen him do at every journey’s end. He’d call, look – would find the smial empty, and with a sigh he’d move on – for food? No, not he, though he might seek the comfort of a pot of tea – but then, he’d likely want to bathe and soothe the stains and aches of travel, to make himself ready…

The surprise resting on his hip – it would keep fine here in the cool entry. It must – he could not wait longer to take it to the cellar, and was not sure his suddenly shaking hands could carry it further, anyway.

No sound, no light, no sign, until he turned the corner to the long hall. Steam drifted, a mist rising from the bathing room door to the roots tangled in the rounded ceiling. Damp footprints led down the hallway, glistening in the light. A chill was gathering with the approach of dusk, and would have called for a robe’s comforting warmth. But in his imagination, in _memory_ , strong muscles flexed beneath pale rounded flesh with every confident step. His belly clenched at the envisioned scene, seeing the sway of those firm steps, one lean arm raised casually, a white hand rubbing the towel over clinging wet tendrils…

[](http://photobucket.com)  


He could not find voice to call, and could barely walk for the trembling ache in breast and groin. He paused to catch his breath – glanced down, and here, aligned right next to his sturdy foot, lay the clearest print – smaller, narrower, precisely shaped. The arch was high, the toes round and even, their imprint smudged by the soft bristles between them. He remembered it so well in the flesh, silken in his hand, insistent at his hip. And a rush of dizziness and desire made him reach to the wall. He took deep breaths – and then, hurrying now, padded noiselessly and quickly, careful not to slip upon the wet trail he followed, until here –

Sudden brightness, as though cloud had passed beyond the sun, and the doorway ahead was filled with sparkling blue light as low rays cast their glimmer through the cobalt vase, wavered shadows through flowers that wafted in the gentle breeze.

He stepped from the dimness of the hallway through the doorway, into the light, into the breeze – and there, oh there!

Sitting, unaware, curled lithe and naked upon the bed in a pool of sunlight, turned from the door into the window’s radiance. Supple muscle rippled in his shoulders and back as he bent over one foot, laid his hand on it, ran his fingers through lustrous hair. Then, he stretched forward to reach for something in a basin nearby, raising it before him – a vial, a new one, the very one left for him – running his thumb around the lip to break the wax seal, lifting its cork stopper, opening it now…

“Ohhh!”

The cry of longing pierced to his core, and every bit of his trembling yearning coalesced to strength. He knew what welcome was needed now, far beyond words, one for which longing had prepared each of them so well. Silently, he strode forward to wrap his arms around him, to hold him, spread his hands nurturing, needing, over petal soft skin and firm muscle.

His gentle touch was known instantly as he embraced the beloved body arching back against his chest, twisting for a glimpse.

And now he could not touch enough! There was not time enough in all the world for all that he wanted to give, to feel, to take. Touching – up, over pale throat, to the dark head laid back against his shoulder, around to curving lips opened, pressing kisses to his fingertips… Down, swirling across the lightly furred belly, indrawn swift as he passed… Down, to arching heat, thrusting into his encircling hand.

He found voice enough to sigh _his_ name as he brushed down across damp curls, seeking the soft lips that would open eagerly beneath his own. Their breathless kiss tangled tongues and teeth as thoroughly as limbs must do, in only a moment, past all waiting… He could scarcely stand for the rippling heat in his groin. Bracing his thighs against the bedside, he pressed hard, and again, between rounded cheeks rubbing back against him, only linen and wool separating skin from yearning flesh –

One gentle hand, clutching still that scented vial, flew up to caress his cheek; the other down, down to lace together with his, swirling, stroking hardness to soft gasps – He caught the imploring collapse back against his chest, holding for dear life.

Lifting now, to lay him effortlessly onto the bed, following with tender kisses to neck and shoulder and softest lips, as he traced light fingertips along his belly, sliding down along the dark line of fur to take hardness in hand once more, till a groan of need invited more, more… Lean legs opened wide with welcome as he set one knee between, covering him, pushing down – finding heat rising hard to meet him, all rhythm and pace lost to urgency. Now… now… The oil? Here – somehow not spilled. He claimed the vial, as deft hands, freed now, pushed aside what little remained to part them – time and distance no longer a divide, fabric’s barrier now opened, spread, and pushed aside –

He gasped, taken by the ecstasy of that well-loved touch, and bracing himself on one elbow, poured fragrant drops into the warm palm upturned and cupped to receive, to caress fire upon him, around him… stroking burning desire…

Time, it was time, and more than time, to take, to cherish, to ease their shared and fervent need.

He hurried, dripping thick oil onto his own hand for the last and most intimate of all this day’s preparations for his love. Strong fingers swept through dark curls, around arching firmness… and lower, between… pressed tight heat with oil-slicked ease... a touch deep within… answered by an embrace around, sliding up…

A murmured sigh – and their eyes met in shared intent. He raised to his knees, and caressed well-tended feet, stroked up along firm calves, under bent knees… lifted narrow hips to meet his own. Embraced now between strong thighs, eloquent hands placed, guided him, as legs tightened, pulling him closer…

Now, _now_ – and with one timeless push, he brought them together, once more, reunited as deeply as ever remembered.

Pausing… pulsing… pleasure rippling… Desire mounted, ever higher, to one joyous cry, and another – then falling together with only each other.

No more waiting, but only this _now_ , enfolded by lithe limbs and silken feet, afloat on familiar fragrance infused with the endless longing of too long days; falling free… into eyes blue as the autumn sky above, bright as Earendil, rising to the greens and browns of the stable earth itself.

And there, holding close, lying face to face for the first time for far too long, they met again in love and gaze, abiding together, now, and evermore.

_Finis_

 

 

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